To the End
by Idonquixote
Summary: In the Blitz of 1940, the butler left the manor at last. Somewhere out there, his boy stopped needing him.


**I honestly have no explanation for this. I've been working on it for a while, so I'm hoping you'll enjoy this read. I left a lot of things ambiguous on purpose and there are some important OCs (but no romance, don't worry!). Warning: not a happy story.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji**

* * *

><p>He awoke to the sound of rain and blood, the sound of a child's cry echoing in the obscure distance. Still. He rolled onto his side, curled inwards, touched the pained gashes and pooling blood. How? When? Why? Who-<p>

The questions lingered, his tongue tasting iron, eyes roaming about the dark. Dark. The sky was dark. Cold. Yes, there was a chill about the air. But when had he- who?- ever felt the cold? On that cobbled street, empty, barren, a man stood up, slow, pained, a limp of a shadow.

There was a child in the distance. But there was no one...

_"Help me."_ It was the boy's voice, a fragile, despairing thing.

It was calling him. It must have been. He could think of no other why or no other how.

_"Help me."_ It grew distant, faint, until it was nothing more than a whisper in his mind.

He remembered a flash of steel, a whir, a fire, the bars of a cage, the tears of that child, that child- blue eyes, yes, a bright dark blue- and slate hair, soft to the touch. There was a cup of tea. There was a garden to tend, a meal to cook, a house awaiting. Yes. The manor... the name, the name lingered. What was it?

He stumbled, catching sight of one hand at last, a battered pale thing stuck in a torn glove. Was it his own? But his glove was clean. It was always white, clean. He saw it with blood once. And the child- was the child clean?

The Manor. Yes, the manor needed him. He limped off.

XX

He thought he found the boy in 1893. He had been searching for the boy since that night in the alley. The boy needed him. The manor needed them. He needed the boy to tell him if he was making the right tea, if the bed was made right, if the house was clean. For the boy, he would buy chocolate every day, cradling in his arms box upon box of sweets. The boy liked chocolate. Sweets upon those petal lips.

The boy needed him.

He had waited for the boy to come home, but days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and when a year had passed, he sought to find the child himself. The boy must be lost. He would bring him home.

"Please, sir, jus' jus' a lit' bit, a li' bit," that weak small voice begged from the curb of the East End.

He was a bony little thing, scraggly dark hair falling over one pale eye, dirty hands outstretched for alms. The man had been watching as other men came and went, a few bread crumbs falling over the child's fingers here and there. The boy's eyes caught his then, their look saying _help me, please help me. _

The boy needed him.

He knelt by the child's side, smoothed that dirty head with one hand. That night, he was not alone in the manor. He set the waif in bed, fluffed the pillows, and brought him milk with honey. He fed the boy soup, bathed him with fragrant aromas, dried him with a familiar white towel. Had the boy come home?

The child had been too scared to talk. And the man- did he know how to speak? He knew that he could get what he wanted with those paper notes and round pieces of gold- money- with money, one never had to speak. And the manor was abounding with money.

He prepared a fire for the boy when winter came. He cooked for the boy, bathed him, put him to bed each day. The boy's cheeks grew rounder, his complexion pinker. He was still skinny, small. One day he dared to speak.

"Why are ye doing this?" he squeaked one night.

Because the man was needed. He said nothing.

"Sir, can- can ya talk?"

No one had asked him to speak before this. This must be the boy- the boy would make silly demands, he remembered. The man's mouth moved, a velvety sound coming out, no worse for wear despite the years of disuse.

"I- I don't know."

The boy beamed at him. But his boy never beamed. His boy- who was his boy?

"My name's James. Wot's yours?"

"My name-"

He must have disliked his name. But why, he couldn't fathom. Now it was sacred. It reminded him of the boy somehow- his boy. It was- the wide eyes passing over him, the sun rising behind, the bloodshed beneath their feet, the strange alien glee he could no longer recall- that name. He forced himself to find that name.

"_Is Sebastian_."

James smiled once more.

XX

He remembered a girl when he found little Laura in 1897. James had left the summer of '96. Three years of milk with honey and a child's chatter in his ear, of thick coverlets, and a seeping warmth in that empty home. Three years that Sebastian had never drank or eaten or slept. One year of James' devotion. One year of James' suspicion. And one year of James' absolute terror. The boy had fled from the monster in the manor the first chance he got. And Sebastian had returned with a bundle of chocolate that no one would eat.

But James was not his boy. His boy was still out there. And he needed Sebastian.

He had been searching the streets for his boy again when he saw her, a flash of golden curls and bright green eyes, a ragged child in the path of a speeding automobile. He recognized her- who? how?- she knew the boy- she wore bonnets and pink frills- she loved the boy- they danced in the manor- he knew her- the boy needed him.

The car hit nothing.

Her name was Laura Wellman- Laura- Lizzie- and her mother was dead. She had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Once again, he put a child to sleep, closed her curtains, brought her milk.

"Sebastian, stay wi' me until I fall asleep," she muttered, "please."

Had the boy said the same thing? Surely she must know the boy. He stood by her until dawn. And the next dawn. And the next.

"Do you know a boy?" he once asked her as she dragged him to play in the snow.

She had only laughed. "What's 'is name?"

His name? The home was his, but- there was no name to be found. Sebastian could only stand as a snowball pelted his middle. Who was his boy?

XX

Laura had never left his side. A man in a bowler hat had taken her from him in 1901. He said he was with the Yard and his reddish hair, his gruff stache- an officer his boy knew- it reminded him of another officer- one he knew- one who knew them. He watched the girl thrash in the other man's arms, tears streaming from her pretty face, reaching, reaching for him.

She screamed for him. The child's hands wanted to hold his- he had held that boy's so long ago- so small in his own. He wanted to reach, to touch the tips of her fingers. But a part of his mind, frozen and damaged, told him it was for the best, that she would be better off somewhere else. He was- what had James called him- a devil? Was that it?

The officer told him she needed to be in a proper home, that they had found her wandering in the woods, and that no one was fit to live in that closed off mansion.

Sebastian let Laura leave without a goodbye. When the Yard returned for him, he was gone. He had no other name to offer them, no history. They searched the boy's manor. But they found nothing.

Sebastian would search for his boy anew.

XX

In 1909, a little thief had tried to steal the coins in his pocket. The child had oily grey hair and dark blue eyes. He wondered if it was his boy. Sebastian had taken to wearing a coat and hat by then- different buildings came down and others came up, store owners changed, disappeared, wrinkled. But Sebastian- he knew he looked the same. The child's name was Killian.

In 1914, the little thief was not so little. But Sebastian knew he was not the boy. At the train station, a girl had cried, "Help me!"

He knew the words- had them burned in his memory- and found the voice that needed him. Curly black hair and sea-blue eyes. Her name was Jennifer and her stepfather never got to have his way with her. The drunkard's head had been dashed against the pavement, his blood coloring those white gloves once more. Killian made himself another room and Jennifer moved in.

In 1917, Killian rushed into the War. He wanted to serve. Sebastian had not understood why- did Killian not need him? But no, the youth had said, it was because all those years ago, he thought he would die on the streets, unloved, unwanted, dirty and hungry. Sebastian had saved him. And it was because Sebastian had saved him that he owed this country one thing, if nothing at all. Because in the dust and the dirt, in that world of odor and nothing, there had been one man who stood for him.

Sebastian saw him off at the station, Jennifer's hand in his own. The word "War" hung like a plague- was the boy scared?- was the boy fighting?- or was he hiding?- was he well? The boy needed him still.

He caught glimpses of spectacles flashing in the night, of blood and moving pictures intertwined in one, of blades that seemed so familiar and foreign. Crimson hair. Black gloves. The snapping of a pruner. Strangers that seemed to hang everywhere, death so strong in the air.

Jennifer died of illness in 1919. Sebastian could not save her. Killian never returned. Sebastian could not save him. He wondered if he had failed his boy as well.

"No remarks," were distant whispers in his ear. A voice that he knew. But a voice that was not his: no remarks, no remarks.

In 1922, he found a boy digging through the trash on the street, short brown hair and light blue eyes. The child had freckles- his boy's face was clean. Sebastian had stopped asking the children's names.

In 1929, a child had shrieked, "Help me!" There was a burning building and the soot-covered girl had silky black hair.

In 1935, he had ten children in his keep- dark hair, blue eyes, things that needed him- but their names were lost to him. James, Laura, Killian, Jennifer- the line had stopped. Milk with honey, thick coverlets, drawn curtains in the morrow. But none were his boy.

In 1939, the children had started to scatter as soon as they came. He saw those that went to parishes, to the nunnery, to the coal mines. When they were healthy, when they had the means- these nameless children rarely spoke to him, barely looked at him- or was it he that never cast them a glance? Because they were not James? Not Laura? Not Killian? Not Jennifer?

Because they were not his boy.

In 1940, he remembered that his boy only had one eye.

* * *

><p>Olivia Nootin made her way through the sullen streets, Constance's tiny fingers in her grasp, dresses splattered with dirt and water, the churning of automobiles all around, her nostrils dulled with cold and the odor of smoke. It was a bleary day for a weary woman and the child's fits of excitement did the mother no favors.<p>

"Darling," Olivia muttered, "Constance, darling. Do stop moving about."

Constance cast her a look of disappointment, one blue eye staring dolefully upwards. A piece of gauze crossed the other, marring an otherwise perfect set of feminine features. The wound was near healed, and the mother had no doubt little Constance would forget in due time. Olivia on the other hand, would always ache looking upon it.

The pair stopped their journey at last, having arrived at her brother-in-law's modest home. Abraham was already there to greet them, a sly smile on his chaffed lips, thinning hair rendered grey with stress. Constance flew into his arms. With a weak laugh, the man lifted her and spun. It was a brief moment, enough to make the woman wonder if she would ever see her Jonathan do the same. No, he was away, in the German trenches, too far for her thoughts to reach.

"Abe," she greeted, offering her best smile, taking the child back into her arms.

"I'll get them bags," he said, "go on in, dear. Pauline's making tea."

It hadn't been too long a trip, only one train ride, a short quick thing. John wanted his family to be safe and there was no other option than to come here- Olivia would rather have stayed in the metropolis, but a young woman and a toddler seemed too vulnerable a situation to chance. And she had never disliked Abe and Pauline. Always found them a bit pretentious, but never outright hated.

"Best keep the little 'un out of trouble," Abraham remarked, pushing the door to his flat open, "you know about the kidnappings round here?"

"Snatchings?"

"Might strange affair. Little 'uns out on the street. Disappeared without a trace."

"Surely the law would-"

"Nothing. Just rumors. I hear the bloke that's doing this is keeping 'em stored in some house in the woods." His gaze hinted at the woodlands visible from their spot in town.

"Did anyone bother looking?" Her hand tightened around Constance's.

"S'hard. There's nothing there but some abandoned village houses. And the old Phantom manor, nothing but a ghost-ridden place."

_Ghost ridden_. But where in the world was not ghost-ridden now? Which old widow was not carrying the ghost of some lost young man? Which person could be untouched by the world now, itself a ghost? If not for Constance, the young Mrs. Nootin was sure she would have become a ghost by now.

* * *

><p>Olivia left Constance with Pauline. Abe had gone off to work on the fields. The child's eye wouldn't scar, that much was certain, but she would be blinded on the right. It was for lack of better word, awful, simply awful. For her part, Olivia had set off for the abandoned manor. There was no use idling about. If it had been in disuse for so long and still in-tact, then she saw no reason why it couldn't be put to use.<p>

She could see it as a boarding house, a hospital, a children's home. There had to be some use for it. And she had to have some use to the cause anyway. The wagon ride had been shorter than she expected and its driver more than eager to return home. Olivia had promised him that she shan't take longer than half an hour.

The gates were rusted and battered, no obstacle to even the pettiest of thieves. She easily pushed past them and began her journey across the grounds. The gardens were barren, but not overrun with dead plants and moss. She was surprised.

The grand mansion itself was coated with a layer of dust, its walls cracked and windows musty from what she could make out. She spent a good five minutes inspecting the outside. The grand entrance doors remained shut and she briefly wondered what it must have been like in its former glory. She thought of grand balls, a handsome noble at the door, things straight out of a Victorian fairytale.

Well, there was no room for dreaming now.

She used the brass knob as a test. The sound reverberated throughout, as if someone had finally come to awaken the beast. She half expected someone to open the doors. She could almost _hear_ the footsteps. A good moment of pointless waiting later, she turned to leave- she would have to come back with Abe in the morrow to check the inside.

Creak.

As if someone had been on the other side. From the corner of her eye, Olivia caught the image of a fleeting shadow, something black and hidden. And she shuddered.

* * *

><p>"I been up there," the boy told her as she made her way down the street toward Abe's residence.<p>

Olivia walked past the child, lifting a curious brow. The dark-haired youth ran in circles, chasing a hoop with a twig. "Been up where?"

"Papa said you went up ta the phantom house."

"Suppose I did, dear?"

"I been there too. It's nice inside."

"Why were you there?" She couldn't shake the hallucination from earlier. But Olivia was not one to believe in ghosts.

"He brought me, the man that is. The butler."

"The butler?"

"Thought I was someone else. But no one believes me. They say there's no 'un there. But there is. He lives there."

"There's no one there."

"But there is. You must've seen 'im!"

Olivia shook her head. "Go home soon, dear." And she was gone, the child still protesting behind her, spouting something about milk with honey and the butler with black hair.

* * *

><p>Constance lay, curled in blankets, a train rattling in the distance. Mummy was still up with Auntie. The girl touched her eye, covered with a small piece of gauze. It used to look funny, but she was used to it now. It still felt funny though. A dull thud kept her from sleeping. Her eyes stayed shut as the little thuds turned to knocking, a little tap at the window.<p>

"Mummy," she whispered.

No, her mother was down with Aunt Pauline. She could hear their voices, talking about France and Daddy and the farms. Lips pursed tightly, the girl shed the blankets and climbed out of bed, tiny feet cold against the ground. She walked to the windowsill and stood on her toes. She pushed the curtains aside.

There was a man standing outside, crouching, in one of those suits she'd only ever seen Daddy wear once. Constance stared at him, mouth gaping, her messy black hair mussed. The man's eyes were almost the color of Uncle Abe's lamb, honey with a dash of red, bright.

"Hello there," the man mouthed.

He smiled ever so softly. She turned the latch and stepped back, unsure of what to do. The man opened the window and stepped in, locking it behind him. He smoothed his dark locks and dusted his clothing, the coattails trailing as he walked.

"Hullo," Constance greeted.

"You have a beautiful eye," he told her, stooping to stroke her hair. His touch was warm, mesmerizing, but Constance wondered if she would get in trouble for this. So she lifted a finger to her lips, shushing him.

"I see, my lady," he said, dropping to a whisper, "what is your name?"

"Constance Nootin," she whispered back, "whas yours?"

"Sebastian."

He pressed a gloved hand to his chest and bowed. "What a tiny mistress you are. Well, Lady Constance, are you fond of sweets?"

* * *

><p>Olivia spent the coming weeks running trips to and from the manor, surveying it with various villagers. The options were narrowed down to either a hospital, a school, or a children's home. That served her very well. The only matter remained was how to get in, that and the approval of the locals, many of whom still thought the place haunted by phantoms.<p>

Still, it was a welcome respite from awkward posturing with her in-laws. The War and its trials on her mind, she hardly had time to give Constance much attention beyond entertaining the child before bed. Her daughter had been mentioning something about a new friend- an imaginary one rather. His name was Sebastian, he had red eyes, and he brought her chocolates. Olivia wrote it off as a plead for more sweets.

She admitted that it unsettled her, after Constance made it a regular subject. Sebastian this and Sebastian that. He told her how mesmerizing her cerulean eye was- Constance obvious did not know what that word meant. He told her she was a lady. He made promises, of fancy hotels in Paris and woodlands in Germany.

At first, it struck her as a child drawing on memories, of stories John used to tell her.

But a child's intuition could only go so far. This Sebastian spoke of foods Olivia had never heard of, let alone her daughter. He described flawlessly- since Constance described flawlessly- the interior of her new home, a sparkling place with shining tiles in the lobby, mahogany pillars and head boards, drapes in drawing rooms, pool tables freshly shined, French windows overlooking the skies, carved cherubs, ancient paintings, the exact spot the moonlight hits when the marble floors shine.

And when she and the local man finally managed to pick the weakened lock of phantom manor, its dusty doors yielded.

Olivia blanched at what she saw, knees numb. For an edifice so dead on the outside, its interior was as magnificent as it had ever been in centuries prior, clean without fault. But from the hanging chandeliers to the marble tiles, to every carving in its decor-

It was exactly as Constance had described.

She remembered her first trip to the manor. There had been someone inside. And he had been waiting... for what, she didn't know.

_The butler._

* * *

><p>"Abe, I've a crazy theory. Would you think me mad?" Olivia asked, absently pouring her brother-in-law's tea. It was early dawn, the sun not fully risen, and his eyes were drooping over a newspaper.<p>

She took her place at the table, between her in-laws, one at each edge. Little Constance was still in bed. Her tales of Sebastian had stopped three days before, the last visit to phantom manor.

"Why should I think that?" Abe asked. Even Pauline looked up from her sewing.

"I- I don't know. The snatchings, remember?" Olivia rubbed her eyes, looking away from the window, "I've a notion that the man might've hidden them in the manor."

"You've been up there, how many times now- surely someone'd see something?" Pauline said.

Olivia looked down at her own teacup. "That's the thing. I'm not sure if there's anything to see... I think- I think the children never stay. I think he brings them back."

"Then why take 'em in the first place?"

"I think he's mad. Think he's taking these children for a reason- and when it's not the right reason, sends them back."

Abe laughed. "That does sound mad. But I won't think ye mad. A little odd talk for the morning, hm?"

"Yes, yes, odd talk." Olivia feigned a chuckle. But it did nothing to soothe her mind. The phantoms in the woods plagued her mind, filling her head with scares of shadows and mist, things that hadn't bothered her since she was an irrational little girl. Something was wrong with that house, terribly wrong, and somehow it all came back to her Constance.

* * *

><p>Olivia Lusher Nootin was a woman of medium stature, with a head of fair hair and clear blue eyes, set on a face that some would call almond-shaped. She was a city-bred girl, high in the middle classes, educated, and proper to a fault. Jonathan Nootin had been a schoolteacher at the time, coarse in a way endearing to the country, dark-haired, tan, and charming. For a while, he had swept her off her feet.<p>

Six years into their marriage with a daughter for five, the nation plunged itself into war and her John, simple John, went along. But by then she wondered what she would miss most about him- his role as their breadwinner, a proper husband, or just him. Love was a strange thing with its circles and breaks and how it all looped back asking her if she had ever really wanted him at all.

Those nights at Abraham Nootin's made her think, think hard about it all. And somehow it brought her round to Constance's friend. Perhaps she needed to stop being so stubborn, so unwilling to look at what life had become. She needed to stop doubting. For her sake as well as her daughter's, she made up her mind.

_I need to see him._

* * *

><p>"Did mummy see you?"<p>

"I like to think she did, milady."

"Do you want her t'come see you 'morrow?"

"I would cherish that very much. But only..."

"Only what?"

"If she brings you."

"She won't lemme out the house."

"Well, then, you must tell her to bring you."

* * *

><p>The history of phantom manor was a sordid one. Abe couldn't fill her in on the details, but one thing was for certain- it had been the home of an earl, several in fact. His lordship owned the estates surrounding it and the villages that farmed nearby. But it had been uninhabited since the Great War or even earlier. The people had never had much contact with the earl.<p>

It was an old farmer, the great uncle of the man- Tom- that drove her to and from the manor, that told her what she needed to know. Sitting at his battered table and drinking his tea, she listened to the old man rant on.

"They were called Phantomhive," he said, speech garbled by loosening teeth, "a mighty proud lot, rich."

"Do you know more?" she pressed on. Tom was outside, rolling a cigarette.

"Been there since I can remember. But something weren't quite right with 'em. Think the devil's work- they were the evil noblemen, ye know? That's what folks call 'em. Phantomhive. When I was a boy, small, the house burned."

"It looked fine to me," she said, eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Might big fire, destroyed 'em. Whole family wiped out."

She grimaced- it was a horrible occurrence, though the tragedy was so long ago that it felt wrong to consider remorse for these strangers. The old man laughed.

"Now ye can believe this old man if ye want, no 'un listens t' me for so long. One day, my brothers were heading out to town, and they saw it come back- Phantomhive manor, healthy as it's ever been, s'if the fire ne'er happened."

He went silent. When he spoke again, it was as if in a stupor. "Their boy came back, little lord Phantomhive. Ne'er seen 'im in my life before that, but something were wrong with him. Lost an eye-" he pointed at his right "always going round glaring. A sad thing 'e was. He came back wi' another fellow, tall, all in black- only ever seen him once-"

"His butler," Olivia finished for him. It clicked together, but it was forming was a distorted picture, some strange nightmare that belonged in a theatre, not in her life, not in this reality.

"What happened to them, the lord and his butler?" she asked, the critical answer she needed before her next visit.

* * *

><p>Tom had gone home when Olivia next arrived at <em>Phantomhive<em> manor, Constance in tow. The little girl had informed her of the invitation and Olivia was determined to get to the bottom of this affair. It was a dangerous gamble, but if this was a cruel farce, she had no intention of letting it transpire further. Taking her daughter's hand, Olivia entered the mansion.

"We're here!" she called, her voice echoing all around, Constance joining her cries of greeting.

_Come out, you bastard._

"Sebastian!" Olivia said, "We're here for you. Are you going to leave your guests waiting!?"

"Sebastian," Constance laughed.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, she saw a hint of a polished shoe on the staircase. She stared at the blur of black that followed, a swirl of coattails that sailed like feathers. As if transfixed, Olivia watched the figure descend the stairs, soundless and desperate. This was the child snatcher. Constance's friend. The Phantomhive butler.

A man who should have been confined to the background of portraits and the history of pages.

In that space of time, staring at him, she had nearly forgotten it was 1940. He was _perfect_, not a hair out of place, decked in a tailed uniform, clean and posh, a pale thing of flesh and blood that should have served Phantomhive to the end of time.

"Sebastian," she gasped.

But his burning eyes were fixed on the girl. The man stooped, a fleeting look of joy passing over that wooden face.

"You came, Lady Constance," he said, brushing the bandage with his left hand.

He was real. Olivia could hear his breaths, feel his presence, see him touch her daughter. Yet that wasn't what gave her pause. What gave her pause was that look on his features, that expression of purity which looked so foreign on a face more suited for cruelty. Perhaps she was too sentimental, too shocked, too motherly, because in that moment, Olivia believed this man was innocent of whatever crime that led her to him.

"Don't touch her," Olivia said, pulling Constance into her embrace, lightly pushing Sebastian's hand away. He didn't contradict her.

"What happened?" he asked, acknowledging the mother at last, "what happened to her eye?"

_Earl Phantomhive's missing eye_. "An accident- a window broke. Glass got in."

Sebastian only stared back, struggling to comprehend the incident. He absently touched the back of his own hand, gloves rubbing together. "Were you- were you there?"

"My husband was. I was in the washroom. I wish I was there."

Before he could speak again, she cut him off, still clutching Constance. "Sebastian, I came here today for one reason only. Who are you? What do you want with us?"

"I am the butler of this household. I always have been. Mrs. Nootin, I wished for the acquaintance of your daughter because I was hoping-" he faltered, resembling a lost child more than a man, "she could help me find him, or that she was him."

"Find who?"

He struggled for the right word. "My young master. He has one eye. Deep blue, cerulean in the light."

"Constance is my daughter. She can't be your master. And it's impossible for us to help you. Sebastian, this needs to stop... snatching children, haunting this manor. We all need to move on. Lord Phantomhive is gone and it's time you followed."

She turned to leave, forcing Constance to turn with her, the girl trying in vain to crane her head for the butler. Olivia was determined to leave him then and there, positive that the ghost of Phantomhive manor would be expelled at last. Constance was calling for him, but was quickly silenced by her mother. Behind them, she heard Sebastian speak, a defeated, tired sentence:

"I don't know how."

* * *

><p>Olivia didn't see the butler again and neither did Constance. In all her trips to the manor, surveying the interior with the town council and Tom's men, she had never so much as sensed Sebastian. The relief weighed her down and she was all but ready to expel all thoughts of that particular haunting. Phantom manor was finally spectreless. There were no more snatchings. The children still spoke of a man that stole them into the woods, but it was all brushed off as a game among the young, a flight of fancy.<p>

And even Olivia began to wonder if it had really happened at all. But she couldn't forget his face; she found it etched into her mind, turning up in the middle of her dreams, beautiful in how broken and lost it looked.

Tom Cann's great uncle passed away on a rainy afternoon, the water hitting every roof and washing away memories of an old man. Gerald Hollingshead Cann died in a fevered sleep, raving about past loves and a creature with blood red hair. Olivia thought seeing him one last time the right thing to do. She never had the chance to speak with him. She offered him silent thanks and said a prayer.

After that visit to the Cann household, she found herself wandering the path to Phantomhive manor with a mind to lay ghosts to rest. What she found was the very opposite.

"Oh, a tragic love story indeed!" a voice was booming, "that you should recognize me at a time like this!"

Olivia looked up, a hand flying to her mouth in horror. Struggling on the mansion roof was a figure decked in red, waist length hair swinging as it jumped, a buzzing contraption in its hands. She caught a glimpse of a grin, sharp teeth glinting as the figure swung its weapon, a parody of a waltz. Only after the shock set in did she realize it was a woman- or man? And certainly not human.

The attacker charged, its target a form in black. _Sebastian._

"I was content to let you live, you know," the other said, oblivious to her presence, "Sebby, I had no idea you were so romantic. Now that you've called me out, I have no choice but to off you- it pains my heart as much as it will pain yours!"

The contraption- saw?- sliced several shingles. Sebastian dodged and blocked, trying to catch his opponent's arms.

"Where is he?" the butler demanded, the saw grazing his cheek, "please, I know you! You must know him!"

"Can't even remember my name, can you?" the other creature sighed, "and I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

Olivia wished she had brought an umbrella, but compared to the scene playing out, it seemed like a trivial wish. The rain matted her hair and drenched the fighting figures. They were too fast to catch, pushing at each other in a clash that was plain inhuman. But even from her inferior eye, Olivia could see that the redhead was determined to end this fight... and Sebastian was not fighting back at all.

"He needs me-" Sebastian was in the middle of stating before his voice turned into a cry of pain, the saw slicing clear over his shoulder.

"Oh, darling, you've gotten so rusty over the years," the redhead teased, "my poor darling."

"Tell me-"

The saw cut into him again, leaving a ragged tear of red across his torso. Sebastian stumbled, rolling towards the edge. The saw plunged into his side and he did fall. Olivia was unable to hold back a scream when he crashed, hitting the ground in a flurry of dirt and blood.

"Can't let one of that lot see us," his attacker said, casting Olivia a glance, "we have to finish this soon. I do so wish you were the way you used to be. Taking you like this makes me so guilty."

Sebastian managed to pick himself up in time to avoid a blow to the head. The saw struck him in the chest, a smattering of red rushing out. And against all logic, the butler continued to step forward, desperate to touch his foe. "Please-"

The weapon whirred, tearing into his unharmed shoulder. He caught the weapon's handle and forced it to the side. "Please, tell me-"

"I've told you, I haven't a clue!"

It slashed his thigh. In a flash of violent fury, the other creature dug the saw into his opponent's injured torso, plunged it all the way through, and tore through the chest. The weapon came out in a brilliant whir of spiraling blood, and the bespectacled creature suddenly became a picture halfway between heaven and hell- _a god of death._

Sebastian's torn body hit the dirt, a puddle of water catching his fall. It was quickly dyed red. One twitching hand still struggled to move forward. The saw was raised one last time, poised at that black head.

"_Stop_!" Olivia shrieked, coming out of her terrified stupor, "stop it!"

She rushed at them, dropping to her knees, muddying the dress to stop at Sebastian's side. He was no ghost. Ghosts did not bleed. And common human instinct told her to intercept, however futile the effort. His face was turned towards her, but the eyes were shut. This was not the magnificent face that haunted her dreams. This face was blanched and bruised, stained with mud and blood, a picture of pain that was all too relateable to a human.

Miraculously, the whirring stopped.

"For a human and a reaper to pity you," the creature said, gaze softening behind those harsh lenses, "you really have fallen, haven't you? I told you that brat was no good for you."

It turned its back, as if contemplating its own version of events. And within a few blinks, the god of death was gone.

Olivia was left, awkwardly cradling Sebastian's head, smoothing his wet locks. "What are you?" she murmured.

"Demon," he muttered through blood-smeared lips. And instead of horror, all Olivia felt was pity, a strange sort of pity that made her want to weep for this creature who could not.

* * *

><p>There was a scar that ran along his chest, jagged and long, wrapping from the top of his back to his abdomen. It was the only scar Olivia could see on Sebastian's person. It was hideous against flawless porcelain skin, skin that she was sure was nigh incapable of scarring, or showing evidence of any wound. Even the injuries that she had helped him wash and bandage would never mark as deep as that harsh scar.<p>

He sat quietly, staring silently ahead as she wound the last of the bandages over his chest. Olivia didn't know when they would heal. She didn't know how such a thing's body worked, but she did know he would not be moving about that night.

Her fingers traced the bits of scar tissue she could see. "Sebastian, this, where did you get this?"

He shook his head.

She suspected it must have been a similar incident to the one she just witnessed, though nothing he did as of yet suggested warranting such a punishment. "You're not yourself are you?" she asked gently, "have you forgotten?"

He said nothing.

"Is that why you got into this fight? You wanted to find out what happened to you... to him, Earl Phantomhive?"

Then, he shuddered. His head lowered, body shivering, any composition he regained lost once more.

"Even his name escapes me," he wheezed.

She wrapped her arms around him. "Don't do that. You'll only agitate the wounds."

"I can't leave," he whispered, "I need to wait for him. What if he comes back and finds nothing? What then? I can't abandon him. I can't."

* * *

><p>In the days that followed, Olivia finally understood that story behind Phantomhive Manor. Sebastian had stayed there since his master's likely demise, a demon masquerading as a human for so long that he had forgotten what he was. Every child he came across resembled his boy, the immortal image he had created for Earl Phantomhive, a child with dark hair and one blue eye.<p>

And this demon, this vile creature who should never even have contemplated such emotions, missed his human companion with a desperate fervor. He sought after that child, unwilling to accept the fact that he was gone, that the end of the nineteenth century had come and gone. Olivia could hear the desperation in his voice, the irony, the sheer loss.

Young Phantomhive had a sweet tooth. It was he who had named Sebastian. Among his favorites were velvet cake. He had a cousin with golden curls. He was up to Sebastian's chest. He could be clumsy. He could be cruel. He could be kind. He was the human who had single-handedly shattered and rebuilt that demon's world. For that alone, Olivia believed the young earl was worth mourning.

* * *

><p>Her plans for Phantomhive manor were shot down. There had been an air raid and one hit had been alarmingly close to Abe's town. The villages were shaken, but unharmed.<p>

The ancient Phantomhive mansion was destroyed, scattered into pieces and burnt to ash. Constance had sobbed in her mother's arms, weeping for the demon who now had nowhere to go. Olivia knew this meant the butler could leave at last, could move on from this world that held the tendrils of a boy's memory. For the end of that tale, so strange and beautiful, she wiped her tears.

For the end of that tale, she knew she could never love anyone as much as she did her Constance. And for that, she was grateful. No matter what trials may come, what the War would bring with its climax and end, she would hold her daughter until the end, for they were bound by soul, flesh, and blood. Love.

* * *

><p>In the Blitz of 1940, the butler left the manor at last. Somewhere out there, his boy stopped needing him.<p>

_Ciel Phantomhive_.

In that moment the bomb hit, the name exploded within him. There was nothing but fire and he remembered. That boy was Ciel Phantomhive. He had a soul worth all of hell's bargain. The year was 1886. 1887. 1888. 1889-

There were flashes or red, death gods dancing, ballrooms open, teacups shining, a small hand that reached for his, a depth of pure emotion that had touched him so much to the core that he became Sebastian-

He remembered a scuffle, a harsh fight, blood and steel, his own blood pouring and pouring, a record spilling out, and every image of Ciel Phantomhive in that demon's record was snipped and cut.

_"You don't have to help me now," were his boy's last words, spoken softly, "you did well, Sebastian." Did the boy die after?_

What the reaper- was it the one with red hair? white hair? gold? brown?- did not account for was the memory to stay. Even without the record, the demon's very being retained Ciel Phantomhive. What they did not account for was this bout of affection, pure, genuine, and true- an affection a devil had no right to have. The boy was a part of him, he knew this now, etched into his essence, a sky that assured him that yes, Ciel Phantomhive had existed and no one had belonged to him as fiercely, as strongly, as rightfully as Sebastian Michaelis had.

The butler would search until this body was nothing but burnt flesh and blood, until dust and ash were all the remnants of time, until there was nothing but scorched earth in their path. Because he needed the boy.

And he knew somewhere out there, the boy knew this too.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading this monstrous one-shot! I hope you liked it and please feel free to review.<strong>

**I'll leave the Nootins' fate up to you. I like to believe they made it through the 40s unscathed and went on with their lives. Same with Sebastian's last memory- a reaper did cut Ciel from his cinematic record and Ciel did die from the incident. He doesn't remember the details and I think it takes away from the story if it was completely explained. So you can imagine which reaper did it and why ;)**

**What matters is that Ciel's soul is out there, drifting or in someone's hands, and that even if it takes a few eternities, Sebastian will find him.**


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